A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

Arend laughed. “My recent experience of lads in courtship is that they often know their minds quite well.” Arend gave Jules a loving glance. “Often better than the older fellows attempting to woo them.”

  “Pshaw, Papa!” Darius said, swatting Arend on the arm. “You were all of a child yourself when you sired me.”

  “Not entirely true, son, but thank you.” Arend’s cheeks had turned ruddy, and Julian wondered if it was entirely due to the brisk weather.

  Darius slid an arm through the crook of Arend’s arm, drawing him closer. “And, Your Highness, from what I’ve heard thus far, you seem to know precisely what you want.” The prince turned to Julian, and with a dazzling smile, stage-whispered, “Papa does know what he wants: you.” The prince’s conspiratorial smile became even more infectious.

  Jules knew then that Prince Darius would become his beloved friend.

  “Indeed, I do know what I want,” Arend agreed softly.

  “Yes, obviously!” Darius laughed, then stepped away from Arend. He took Julian’s hands in his own gloved ones. They were fine-boned, long and delicate, much like the rest of the man. Darius squeezed Julian’s hands lightly. “I approve, Papa. You should marry him, by all means.”

  Julian gasped. Loudly. His heart might literally have stopped. And Arend appeared mildly . . . horrified in reaction.

  Jules rushed to say, “Oh, Prince Darius, y-you mustn’t—I don’t want His Majesty to feel, uh—”

  “He is going to marry you,” Darius announced firmly, suddenly seeming every bit a royal. Then much softer: “He loves you. You make him happy. There should be no question what he must do.”

  “He is right here, and he is your king.”

  “He is my father,” Darius countered, tipping his elfin chin upward.”

  The duo proceeded to bicker so playfully and so swiftly, Jules couldn’t quite follow it all, nor translate it fast enough. There was such love in Arend’s eyes, as he tussled with his son, that Julian loved him even more, somehow. Seeing him in a new role, that of father, and witnessing his devotion to his son, made something new give way in Julian. Something he didn’t quite understand, related to fatherhood and family and . . .

  “I am putting forth a motion, Darius, to my Lords’ Council tomorrow. That, with the news of your intention to claim a Princess Consort, they ratify an edict. One that sanctions”—Arend turned his gaze upon Julian—“a proposal of my hand in marriage. My betrothal.”

  Darius clapped his gloved hands; Julian thought he himself might faint on the spot.

  “A proposal of your hand,” Jules managed to repeat, the misty landscape growing too-bright. “You do mean me, right?”

  “Are you swooning, Julian?” Darius asked, rushing to his side.

  “I believe he is, son.” Arend was at his other side, even faster. “Here, let’s lead you to the bench.”

  Arend began towing Jules by the elbow, but he spun on the man. “I’m bloody well fine!” Julian cried, wiggling free of his lover’s grasp. “You’re saying that tomorrow, you intend to seek permission to marry me? From the Council that’s so eager to depose you?”

  Before Arend could answer, Darius leaned in and kissed Julian’s cheek again. “I’m meant to take a princess consort very soon. I’ll sire plenty of heirs for the realm.” And then Darius kissed Julian’s other cheek. “That mucky Lords’ Council will have nothing to stand on, not now.” Then Darius cut his eyes at his father. “You should have simply asked me to begin with, Papa!”

  “You love your husband,” Arend said, “and I didn’t want anything about the sacredness of that marital bond . . . cheapened.”

  Darius nodded solemnly, chewing his lower lip, then softly said, “It shall be spoken of no further than here. But . . . Garrick does quite like females. A princess consort won’t be . . . problematic.” Darius’s fair features flooded with warmth. “Not in our marital bed.”

  Arend’s expression darkened; he flicked a glance at Jules. “Darius doesn’t know about the rest of the edict the Council delivered.”

  Darius rolled his eyes. “That mummery about gelding Garrick? Please, Papa! How positively medieval of them. They won’t ever get the votes for such madness.”

  Arend’s jaw went slack for a moment. “J-just how long did you and Alistair chat?” he sputtered. “You said Fin didn’t broach the topic of children—you said he left that for me to discuss.”

  Darius rolled his eyes again. “But he served up all that champagne, and at such an early hour. Uncle Alistair always does pour so generously!”

  “He told you bloody everything. Didn’t he?” Arend said, clearly torn between irritation and relief. He poked his son’s chest. “The two of you are in league together.”

  Darius flung his cape out. “We always have been, Papa! He’s my uncle, whatever else can you expect? Honestly. When we both love you so dearly and wish to secure your happiness.”

  “Why aren’t you more worried about the Council’s intention to see Garrick sterilized, should you claim a princess consort?”

  Darius flicked his wrist with royal disdain. “Because they’d never get the votes for something so primitive and cruel. It’s mutilation they are suggesting. And that shan’t ever hold water, not in an official vote.” Darius, while being adorably charming and kind, had a solid head on his princely shoulders. One day, he’d make a fine king himself.

  “You’d see it, too, Papa, if you weren’t so terrified of losing Julian. You’re afraid to hope, but this is your realm and Julian is your chosen prince. Your Council must support you or suffer outcries from the people. Their maneuvering has been about control from the first, but they daren’t risk losing the goodwill of the populace.”

  “I appreciate the political narrative, son,” Arend said, the tension between his eyes lessening. Perhaps he’d seen in Darius what Julian himself just had: that the young man was a fine, insightful prince who reasoned quite well under pressure.

  “Besides, Garrick looks absolutely nothing like me!” Darius grinned at them both. “Julian, he’s tall and freckled and blond. He’s tan and golden, where I’m all . . . ” Darius exposed his pale wrist to Jules. “This. Pale as the underbelly of a whale, much as I hate it.”

  Arend’s eyes crinkled into smile lines. “Your point, son of mine?”

  “None shall doubt my heirs’ legitimacy. Those babes shan’t look a bit like my northern giant of a husband, with his square jaw and rugged warrior’s features. He’s from the old kin, not the highlander stock, you see, Julian,” Darius explained offhandedly. “Although his broad brogue would make you believe otherwise. On any count, my heirs shan’t look a thing like Garrick.”

  Darius tucked his fur collar closer about his throat, continuing excitedly, “We’re not children, Prince Garrick and myself. We do understand the fundamentals of procreation. Obviously, only I shall penetrate the princess.”

  “Darius.” Arend scrubbed a face over his eyes. “I recognize that you are an adult with a husband, but please. I cradled you in my arms, you know.”

  “And I’ll cradle my own babe one day. Because I do know how parenthood is accomplished. Now, with that said, Papa, you must marry Julian.”

  Julian blinked; he blinked again. He didn’t have time to ponder overlong, as Arend turned to him. “Julian, you’ve heard your prince. He wishes me to marry you.”

  Darius leaned closer to his father, adding, “And soonest.”

  Arend took Julian’s hands, and dropped to his knee. “Will you have me, as husband? If my meeting in chambers tomorrow goes well, and the Council approves our union? Would you”—Arend’s voice caught—“have me?”

  Julian’s teeth had begun chattering, and not just from the chill air. “Arend.” Then, remembering that Darius observed this moment, caught himself, “Sire. Your Majesty.”

  “Arend,” his king corrected. “I am Arend with you, not a monarch, not a title. A man, kneeling here before you, telling you that I love you. I love you, Julian, and long to spend my full life with
you. Until we are old—and I’ll be older sooner—and all of Darius’s children are having children of their own. That’s the life I want.”

  Julian’s eyes swam with tears. He could barely make out Arend’s up-tilted face until he swiped at his eyes with the heel of one hand. Then, as if the clouds cleared away from the midday sun, he saw Arend. Saw the love and faith in his eyes; saw how young this moment rendered the king. He was more a man of Julian’s own age, than one who’d pressed gently past forty.

  “Will you?” Arend repeated hoarsely, as Julian reached down to cup his cheek. The wind was growing stronger, and a long lock of Arend’s hair lashed over his eyes. Julian carefully brushed it aside.

  Julian slid both palms to his beloved’s face, cradling it. “I have dreamed my whole life of you, Arend Tollemach. I waited a decade at my temple. I can wait until tomorrow, and your Council’s final decision to know I’m your fiancé. But, yes. Oh, yes! I wish to become your husband if I’m allowed.”

  Arend bounded onto his feet and had Julian in his arms before he had all the words out. He found himself crushed in the most exuberant embrace of his life. “Yes, yes, yes,” he kept murmuring against Arend’s cheek.

  And was shocked to find that cherished cheek suddenly very damp. Arend murmured in his ear, “Tears of joy, darling mine. Tears of joy.” A quiet sob erupted from Arend’s chest. “I waited my whole life for you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Arend stood in the center of the Council Chamber’s main rotunda, surrounded by various members, all of whom were practically crushing him in their victorious exuberance.

  I waited my whole life for you, too. He’d said those words to Julian, tearfully, wondering in his most secret heart if he’d spend the rest of his life lamenting the loss of their concubinage. He’d known everything hung in the balance today.

  Now, here he stood, accepting uncharacteristic shoulder-clapping. “Your Majesty, it was scintillating, watching those so-called lords given their due,” one said.

  And another: “I never have understood why there’s so much Council interference about royal marriage. It’s as if the old fellows want a vicarious thrill.”

  “Long live the king—and his newly betrothed!” cheered several, until Arend found himself in the center of a tightening knot of supportive Council members.

  He shook hands, thanking every Council member that came forward to bow and congratulate him. It was only incomplete because Julian was not with him, but rather, waiting out in the carriage.

  Arend craned a look outside, via the open vestibule doors. The royal carriage sat out front, with two palace guards posted and two more footmen waiting at attention. But there was no sign of Jules, who had tearfully pressed Arend out the door, vowing to await “the very best of news.”

  He was lightheaded and dizzy, trying his best to grasp that he had won. They had won—he and Julian. After hours and hours of catfighting in Council, the mutiny was quashed.

  Arend slid a hand to his cape pocket and patted, for perhaps the tenth time in the past moments, the sealed documents that officially sanctioned His Majesty’s betrothal to Mr. Julian Etienne Baribeau. The weighty vellum beneath his fingertips made him smile anew. He couldn’t wait to tell Julian, to show him the seals and signatures on their newly ratified marriage edict.

  As he moved a bit closer toward the portico doors, he happened to notice the Duke of Alsderry making haste to Alistair’s side. Good, he thought. Now, Your Grace, please convince my shy brother that he should press a suit on your rakish son.

  He craned his head in Alistair’s direction, eager to see what would transpire between the duke, and the secretary who secretly pined after that man’s fourth son.

  Behind Arend, a cultured voice interrupted his reverie. “Your Majesty, if I might have a moment?”

  Arend turned and found the Marquess of Bournewood smiling at him—or in his general vicinity.

  “Lord Bournewood, by all means. Please.” Arend moved nearer, as the young man tapped a cane and strode closer. He was wholly sightless, a relatively recent occurrence, Alistair had explained. Before his recent marriage to Lord Jeremy Ryder.

  Bournewood rested a hand on Arend’s forearm, leaving it longer than appropriate for a king’s subject. Arend understood. He covered the marquess’s hand beneath his own gloved one. “Lord Bournewood, I owe you my immense gratitude,” he said. “What you did today? Was the highest possible service to the crown. Mr. Baribeau and I are indebted to you. I am forever indebted, my lord.”

  Bournewood laughed self-consciously, then bowed. “Sire, I must thank you. Such an honor, being the first to affix my seal to your betrothal edict.” The fellow’s unfocused gaze became bright with joyous mischief. “And to aid you in setting those outdated codgers on their ears. Gentlemanly marriage is sacred, whether the fellows in question are marquesses or kings or peasants. Perhaps those old fellows realize that now.”

  Arend recalled the way the Lord Major had hammered his gavel when Lord Vincent began railing against Arend’s supposed “lapsed morals and compromised virtue.”

  Some prickwit had shouted, “Male lusts!” from the upper gallery just then. A mistake, as it drew angry attention from the Lord Major’s ruling bench.

  “Lord Vincent,” the Lord Major said, cutting Blaine’s diatribe off, “you have frequented the southside molly houses since you weren’t even of age. I have testimony to that effect, here in-hand.” The Major waved papers in Blaine’s direction. “It’s not that we at Council are concerned with a gentleman’s inclinations or private affairs; however, Lord Vincent, those particular molly houses are not legal. And those southside ones are the most risqué in the realm.”

  Arend had been grateful, in that moment, that he’d never once taken Cordelia’s bait about visiting such an establishment. He made a further note to investigate why any molly house remained illegal, here in His Majesty’s lands.

  There was an uproar and mocking laughter, until the Lord Major rapped his oak gavel again. Lord Vincent had tried to turn the tables back to his favor then. And failed even more miserably when he began a litany of “details” about how Arend had procured Julian from the salacious Temple Sapphor. Blaine made the place sound so depraved, Arend half expected ghouls to cackle right in chamber.

  “Temple Sapphor,” the Lord Major replied, voice growing sharply impatient, “is revered among the ruling classes as a discreet, elevated establishment where they may seek potential husbands or companions. The highest quality, the gentlemen Sapphor introduces to our nobility, on occasion.” The Lord Major lifted another set of papers, clearly affixed with Arend’s royal crimson seal, adding, “I’m sure that’s why King Arend selected that establishment when he sought a royal concubine. I know His Majesty did because he attests to it right here, in writing.”

  Blaine had stared back at the Lord Major, speechless. Livid. And utterly robbed of all power. Oh, Alistair had done a brilliant job of outflanking that horrid lordling. His father, the Marquess of Wycombe was unwilling to expose his own flank, so he had allowed his son to take the arrows.

  And then, the Lord Major said, “As it is now the Council’s full understanding that Prince Darius shall take a princess consort within the year—and, further, as this Council should not concern itself with a man’s inclinations nor his private business—we must invalidate the standing edict against the Tollemachs. Both King Arend Tollemach the Eighth, as well as the edict against Prince Darius Tollemach and his husband Prince Garrick.

  “Therefore, I move, at advisement of the Chief Council members, to ratify a different one in its stead.” The Lord Major looked at Arend, smiling as he pronounced, “An edict that codifies our king’s intention to marry his concubine, Julian Etienne Baribeau. Once ratified, this edict shall sanction his Majesty’s royal betrothal and subsequent marriage to Mr. Baribeau.”

  The Council had erupted then—mostly in cheers of delight and support—but also with some jeers. Arend would’ve sworn he heard the word “ponce�
� shouted several times in his direction, but he didn’t even care.

  He turned back to Lord Bournewood now, who’d been patiently waiting as Arend’s mind whirled. “I fear my thoughts are a muddle,” he apologized. “It’s all so very much to take in.”

  The marquess’s handsome face spread into a bright smile. “Wait until you’re married, Your Highness. Now that is truly all so”—the young man pressed his cane to lips—“very much to take in.” There was the most beguiling little smile on the lord’s mouth, and it was obvious he was besotted with his husband.

  “But it’s already so very much to take in,” Arend said. “I’m . . . Dash it, Bournewood, I’m to be married.”

  “Yes, sire. Congratulations,” the young man said with indulgent cheer.

  “I shall have a husband,” he added wondrously, then: “You’re a newlywed, Bournewood. Is gentlemanly marriage all that a middle-aged king like me might dream?” It was a silly question, one he regretted almost immediately. He sounded like a virginal rube. Like a school boy.

  But the marquess didn’t even blink. “Middle-aged?” The lord stepped nearer, reaching a hand toward Arend’s face. “May I, Your Majesty?” He hesitated. “It’s how I see, now that I’ve lost my eyesight.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Deft, elegant fingers fluttered over Arend’s features, shaping out his nose, his jaws, the neat queue of his hair. “You are not middle-aged.”

  “I’m nearly two and forty.” Arend laughed, but the man ignored the protest, continuing his butterfly touches over Arend’s features.

  Bournewood grinned, dropping his probing hands at last. “Look at you,” he said appreciatively. “You are still young—and very, very handsome! Your fiancé is most fortunate, indeed. And, yes, marriage between gentlemen is . . . quite special. But marriage to one you love? With all your heart?” Bournewood sighed. “It’s what we all dream of.”

  He should get to Julian, who had to be ready to expire from worry. But then Bournewood said, “I do hope my husband and I can entice you for a visit once you’re married. It’s so nice to spend time with younger nobles, and we are eager to meet your prince. Although”—the lord leaned near, clutching his cane against his chest—“you might have to endure a poetry reading. We are quite keen, you see.”